The Great Prank War
by Brobdingnagian Pseudonym
Summary: In a fit of the sheerest boredom, John challenges Sherlock to a war of pranks. Will he regret it? Will both parties survive? Probably. But we might as well get some laughs out of it.
1. The Desolation of Sherlock

This is a little something I posted on AO3 a while back. But since I'm bored out of my mind waiting for a bus (the buses here in satan's anus are atrocious) and have nothing better to do, I might as well post it here too.

The real action won't start until next chapter. But this little prelude is kind of very necessary.

* * *

It was a peaceful day. The weather was perfect. The birds were singing all in perfect harmony. The leaves rustled happily. There were just enough clouds to gaze at dreamily, but not enough to block the glittering sunshine. It was the sort of day that made even the grumpiest of pessimists smile. Except for two.

John Watson had gotten up that morning feeling refreshed and ready to take on whatever the world threw at him, whether it be serial cannibals or crying children with skinned knees or Henry the hypochondriac. He got dressed and down the stairs in record time, only to find his worst nightmare spread over the couch like spiteful butter on toast. A sulky Sherlock was the only thing he felt he couldn't deal with today.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes hadn't woken up refreshed because he hadn't woken up. It was one of the many nights that he just didn't feel the need to sleep. This wasn't the issue, as he could go four or five days with only four hours of sleep and still be in the best of moods. But as dawn broke in through the window and fornicated with the dust motes hanging in the air, he figured it would be a dreadfully pleasant day. And there was nothing he hated more than dreadfully pleasant days. Except for maybe Anderson... Anderson on dreadfully pleasant days.

John had tiptoed past the unmoving hunk of consulting detective, hoping that he could make it to work unnoticed and not have to deal with him until he got back. Maybe he'd cheer up a little by then. Even if he doesn't, work would give John a few hours or so until he had to deal with the moping bastard, and any time away from a bad-tempered consulking detective is time well spent.

"John, Tea." John grimaced but never stopped moving towards the door.

"I don't have time, I'll be late to-"

"Sarah called, they won't be needing you today." John stopped in his tracks as dread creeped through his major arteries. "It's as if people stopped being sick, she said in this hideously cheerful tone. So you'll be staying home today."

"Actually... I was thinking of taking a walk today." He said quickly, trying to make a mad dash through the door.

"No, you aren't. I'm miserable and I'll be damned if I'm not going to drag you down with me." John felt himself sink ankle deep into the floorboards. Sherlock hadn't moved from where he was fused to the couch during the whole ordeal. John couldn't be sure if his lips had even moved while he spoke. "Now. Tea. If you would be so kind."

* * *

John had been sitting in his armchair, raptly watching Sherlock not drink the tea he made when an idea struck him. Sherlock had a bit of a competitive streak when his competition is worthy and whatever he's competing for is of his interest. Which... truth be told wasn't very often. There wasn't anything that John did better than Sherlock other than... being half-decent to people. But maybe, just maybe, a little friendly game might bring him out of his slump.

This is not, by any means, an original idea. He's tried it on hundreds of previous occasions. Cluedo ended with a board being stabbed brutally into a wall. Chess ended with Sherlock winning with one move four times in a row and John storming out of the room. Sherlock outright shot down a game of riddles, almost literally. He didn't bother suggesting a deduction competition. And you don't even want to know what happened when he suggested word games. But this time would be different. This time he found a game that he had experience in. One that he believed had a level playing field.

"Sherlock. I'm still a bit bitter about what you pulled at baskerville last week." Sherlock replied by making a very good impression of being dead. "And, as revenge, I'm going to pull something on you. You won't know when or where it may happen until it does." Sherlock shifted just a bit.

"You may retalliate with a similar prank, but only after my prank has taken full effect." Sherlock lept from his sprawled out position on the couch. It was almost as if he had been switched out with another person. An evil grin spread across his face.

"Is this a challenge?"

"Yes." A matching grin started to spread across John's face.

"You are so on." Sherlock said over the rim of his teacup as he took a sip. It's amazing how he managed grinning and drinking at the same time.

"I'd be more worried if I were you. Could be dangerous..." John stood from his seat and disappeared into his room to prepare his devious plans.


	2. The Dancing Detective

Pranking a genius consulting detective isn't as easy as it sounds.

Well it sounds pretty hard to begin with. But even so it doesn't even compare to how hard it really is.

The man is incredibly attentive to details, so something as simple as stretching plastic wrap over a doorway wouldn't fool him. He hardly ever sleeps, so doodling on his face in the night wouldn't work either. He doesn't frighten easily, so popping out from a hiding spot wearing a scary mask would cause result in either a calm greeting or strangulation. Or he might just ignore you completely.

Not to mention, many of his every day habits are very prank-like already, so it'd take a special brand of deviousness to really affect him.

Good thing John had that particular brand copyrighted while he was in the army.

Sherlock may claim that he doesn't care what anyone thinks of him, but that isn't completely true.

Sure, he may not care what a random bystander may say about his constant dashing about and firing guns. Or what the papers may say about the validity of his abilities and his relationship woth John. Or what his fan club may say about the appealing qualities of his left eyebrow.

Really, he doesn't care what the world on the whole thinks of him, but there are several individuals whose opinions mean the world to Sherlock. And John's go them all on speed dial.

John hadn't understood the appeal of something as extravagant as a smart phone when it was given to him. But after rebuiling his life and cramming a good chunk of it into his ever-so-handy phone, he's not sure how anyone lived without them. Right now, he was especially grateful for his pocket-sized scrap of advanced technology. Because hidden away behind a wall of strategically placed porn clips to ward off prying eyes, was a small but juicy collection of videos depicting Sherlock doing embarrassing things. He picked out one of his favorites, (but not the absolute best, he wanted to save that for later) and set it up to send out to everyone Sherlock ever wanted to respect him.

John flipped through his contacts list, picking and choosing his weapons of choice. Soon he had the nuclear bomb of video messages.

"Aaand send." In just a few seconds, a 12 second video of Sherlock dancing to Michael Jackson's Thriller in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a white shirt, plastic goggles, and a pair of briefs that made his legs look like pencils, was sent off to Lestrade, Mycroft, his mother, Molly Hooper and someone who knows someone who knows the email address of the secretary of someone who works for Moriarty.

Downstairs, a girlish moan sounded off. Sherlock scrambled off the couch, fumbling through a pile of papers to reach his phone. He hadn't heard that moan in ages and, knowing the moaner, it was bound to be interesting. He eagerly unlocked the screen of his phone and pulled up the tex-

-Wait. What if she's part of the prank that John had so stupidly announced he was pulling? No. Impossible. They're not exactly friends, Irene and John. John doesn't even know she's alive. It's also too early to be a possibility. The only way John could've included Irene this early is if he gained 50 I.Q points and a time machine.

He swiped his thumb the rest of the way down the screen.

Nice moves, Mr. Holmes

Forget dinner, how about dancing?

That was only the first in a barrage of texts, emails, facebook messages, and even a few phone calls (from a certain brolly wielder who loves the sound of his own voice) all centered around one subject.

Sherlock slammed his fingernail into the power button and hurled the offensively expensive object out the window, where it hit a strategically placed cat. Most of his pale features went paler, while others turned a unique rosey hue that would look fabulous on the walls of a nursery. One of his vocal cords was struck paralyzed and was seriously considering just dying on the spot. The other disagreed completely. It couldn't stop thrashing if it tried. Which it didn't try. It didn't even try trying to try. It just went on producing disconnected whimpers and squeaks until finally it got a grip on itself and it's twin and let out a truely formidable roar before collapsing into Sherlock's stomach.

"**JOHN, YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!"**

_And so it began._


End file.
